


find my home in you

by marquis



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, but like only sort of, the Boston Flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: Crafting the weather is something that takes time and practice to learn. King has gotten much quicker about it now, after so long. But early on, it took hours to muster any kind of significant effect. There’s so much to consider, the air pressure and humidity and temperature. He feels it even when he isn’t doing anything, ever-conscious of the way the breezes moving the clouds can change the grass underfoot.For Glabe, he knows, this is not the case. All she has to do is consider her body, to focus on the internal, and then think of what she would rather be. The change is near-instantaneous, a blink of an eye or the twitch of a muscle. The transition from one form to the next is forgettable, something to move past.(WHAT IF. King Weatherman was a butch he/him lesbian, and Glabe Moon was also gay, and they fell in love! That's it. That's all this is.)
Relationships: King Weatherman/Glabe Moon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	find my home in you

**Author's Note:**

> thank you kieren @esiako for the proposal of butch he/him lesbian king weatherman, which has haunted me literally all day and inspired this.
> 
> sometimes, you go on an evening walk, and you write an entire fic in your head, and that's just how it goes. i literally do not remember where the title of this fic is from it's in my notes of lyrics i use as placeholders and i couldn't find anything i liked better. the end.

i.

Cheers erupt as another box of tea is dumped into the harbor. It’s crowded along the shoreline today, every team gathered to take part in the festivities as playoff preparations begin. For King’s part, he’s sitting at a table with tea properly contained in a cup, perfectly content to stay away from the worst of the fray.

He’s apparently the only one who feels that way, given the empty tables spread out around him. But it’s a pleasant day out, and not even because he’s made it that way. So he allows himself to relax and drink his tea and think of things other than games and pitching for a change.

“Do you mind if I join you?’

King likes to think he’s at least somewhat good with faces, so it comes as a surprise that he doesn’t remember the woman standing by the spare seat at his table. Ordinarily, she might stand out: she blinks at him with vaguely reptilian eyes, the pupils narrowed to slits, and her dress is far nicer than it has any right to be given their location.

But team rosters change all the time, particularly as of late. There’s a very real chance King has just missed her entry into the game. It’s happened before.

“Not at all.” King gestures for her to sit down. She does, taking great care to arrange her skirts. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I recognize you. Which team are you with?”

“Absolutely none, as of yet,” she responds. “Though given how much fun you’re all having, I think I’d like to find out what can be done about that.”

King has a brief moment where he considers asking her to reconsider. He’s not entirely sure where to start, what horrible dilemma to present first. It would be improper, really, to enlist someone in the game without laying down certain expectations.

He must take too long to respond. Before he can figure out where to begin, she holds out a hand.

“Might I have your tea for a moment?” she asks.

It’s an unusual question, even to King. But he nods and holds out his cup like he’s told. She takes it in both hands and holds it up in front of her face, letting out a slow breath. Flames branch out from between her lips and over her hands, a flicker of heat and light. And then it’s gone, and she’s setting it back down on the table in front of him.

“Careful,” she says, smiling at him like they’re sharing a secret. “It might be a little too hot to drink.”

“Noted,” King says, keeping his hands firmly to himself. “I’ll introduce you to our captain, if you’d like. We’d be happy to have you.”

ii.

King has a rule: Never meddle with the weather during games.

It’s not borne out of any kind of necessity. The forces that be likely would not bother to punish him were he to attempt to create some kind of shelter from the worst of it. At the very least, he’d like to keep the blood out of his suits when it pours down from the clouds. But it’s better not to risk it, in his opinion, and so he grits his teeth and bears it out.

He’s not the only one; far from it. The entire dugout smells of iron and rust. It’s a sickly-sweet medley that, in King’s experience, is best removed with an hour-long shower and a bottle of wine after the whole ordeal is over.

Glabe, though, seems somehow miraculously untouched by the whole ordeal. She perches on the edge of the bench in her pristine uniform and holds a delicate teacup in her fingers, apparently nonplussed. And then she catches him watching her, and her red lips part into an equally delicate smile as she shifts over to make room for him on the bench.

“You ought to try shapeshifting,” she says. “It’s cheaper than going to a dry cleaner.”

King moves to sit beside her, though he’s careful to sit far enough way that their clothes don’t touch. “Not all of us are graced with your pedigree.”

“No, but your own abilities should keep your jacket clean.” Easy as anything, Glabe reaches out and smooths down his lapel. “It’s such a nice fit. I’d hate to see it thrown away because of a little rain.”

“I have plenty of others,” King says, because he does. It would be silly to wear a jacket he cared about in blooddrain. He’ll do his best to save this one anyway, whether by dry cleaner or by his own determination and elbow grease. But if he can’t, it’s no great loss.

“So I’ve seen!” Glabe once again graces him with that same smile, all soft edges and head tilted just so. “I’ve been wondering, King. Do you ever wear the same one twice? I loved the navy Tom Flord number.”

King finds he’s smiling, despite the terrible weather and despite himself. “The feedback is much appreciated, Ms. Moon. Rest assured, my stockpile does have its limits.”

The game ends, as they always do, and King wanders home under the cloudy skies. As planned, he showers until the water runs clear and he feels more like himself again.

And then he walks into his room and, rather decisively, plucks his navy suit from the closet. He hangs it on the door for tomorrow, and does his best to think no more of it.

iii.

The Beautification Project is doing well, much to King’s delight. He’s not the only one responsible for its maintenance, of course, but he is in charge of much of the scheduling and managerial duties alongside Eugenia, so he will allow himself the occasional moment of pride.

He’s on his daily morning walk around the perimeter, sending rainclouds over the plants one at a time, when Glabe finds him. She’s got a collection of planters in her arms, some sprouting tiny sprigs of green already.

“King, there you are!” she says, holding the planters out toward him. “I’ve brought some new seedlings for the Garden.”

It’s not the first time Glabe has come into the greenhouse, but it’s the first she’s brought any plants of her own. Normally, she takes any visits to the Hellmouth as an excuse to sit with Hendricks and discuss whatever it is that dragons prefer to talk about.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, readily taking them from her and leaning to look. The soil is damp and what sprouts there are seem to be healthy, white and turning green at the ends.

“I’ve found a flower I think is delightful,” she says, “and I’d like to see more of it around the Garden. They’re called snapdragons.”

“Ah.” King nods in understanding, eyes flicking up from the seedlings to her face. “I already see a resemblance.”

She laughs, although he’s sure it’s more to humor him than anything else. King turns to take them to somewhere a little more in line with their needs, more temperate than the room full of desert grasses and flora they’re currently in.

“Could you show me how to care for them?” Glabe asks, moving to walk alongside him. Her skirt swishes in time with his steps, and the bells braided into her hair chime irregularly. It’s a pleasant change from the silence he’s used to, so often wandering around with the plants in the early mornings.

“I would love nothing more,” he says, quick and honest. “Come by whenever you’d like. We’ll make sure they survive the winter, and plant them well before next season.”

King means it when he says it. He’s taught a few of the Flowers by now to care for their preferred plants, when they’ve asked. Not everyone has needed to learn; likewise, plenty have opted not to take him up on it, and don’t really take part in it.

It’s a pleasant surprise, then, when he enters the greenhouse the next morning to find Glabe waiting for him. She’s got a book in one hand and tea in the other, but she sets both down on the bench immediately when he enters the room.

iv.

Game day weather, King can do very little about. But everyday weather is a simple thing and he is more than happy to meddle with it however he likes. When he follows Glabe out of the doors of Margaritoville and into heavy rain, it’s hardly anything at all to clear the evening sky above them and allow for some shelter.

Glabe turns to face him, eyes bright. “Are you showing off for me?”

It’s a little hard to hide his smile; King thinks he manages decently well, though, keeping his eyes trained up above. “It would be impolite of me to leave you exposed to the elements without reason.”

“You _are_ ,” she mutters, and her smile is as lovely and bright as her silver dress in the golden light spilling out from the bar. “What else have you got up your sleeve?”

She’s challenging him, and he knows it. King sighs. He slowly removes his suitcoat and, before she can react at all, drapes it around her bare shoulders.

“Nothing up my sleeves at all, Glabe,” he says, smoothing the fabric down over her arms. “Check them yourself.”

She clutches the sides of the jacket and pulls it tightly around herself. “I don’t think you’ll be getting this one back, King,” she says.

“That’s fine.” He waves a hand, moves to put an arm around her waist and lead her toward the train station. “Let’s get you home.”

v.

Crafting the weather is something that takes time and practice to learn. King has gotten much quicker about it now, after so long. But early on, it took hours to muster any kind of significant effect. There’s so much to consider, the air pressure and humidity and temperature. He feels it even when he isn’t doing anything, ever-conscious of the way the breezes moving the clouds can change the grass underfoot.

For Glabe, he knows, this is not the case. All she has to do is consider her body, to focus on the internal, and then think of what she would rather be. The change is near-instantaneous, a blink of an eye or the twitch of a muscle. The transition from one form to the next is forgettable, something to move past.

It is an entirely different approach that, however insignificant, does tend to have an impact on much of their relationship.

“Don’t you go off on me about the _process_ again, King,” Glabe says, sitting on the corner of his desk. “If we are late, I am absolutely blaming you for it.”

King smiles and reaches out to put a hand on her knee, more a sign he’s heard her than anything else. “As it is your right to do. But not everyone can look as impeccable as you with so little effort, Glabe.”

And she does look spectacular, as always. Her jumpsuit is decorated with lace insets and gemstones, hair cascading in waves over one shoulder. She’d showed up to the apartment like this and, despite a hefty lunch and some mid-afternoon errands, everything remains exactly as it did when she arrived. Not one hair out of place.

Glabe sighs, leaning back onto her hands. “I _do_ enjoy watching you get ready,” she starts, dragging the toe of her slipper along the hardwood. “I just wish you would start sooner.”

“You might try getting ready by hand one day,” King says. He removes his hand to focus instead on his cufflinks. “It can be a little harder to predict how long it might take, particularly with distractions.”

“King Weatherman, I resent being called a distraction!” she tells him, but it’s followed by laughter like windchimes and a wide smile. “If you aren’t interested in my company, I’ll be off. I’m sure there are plenty of others in Boston who will have me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” King says easily, glancing up at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’d be terribly sad to see you go.”

Glabe sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine, I suppose I’ll stay,” she says. “But I’m still blaming you if we’re late!”

That, King thinks, is well worth the price of her company.

vi.

It does end up snowing during the Solstice Ball, and though King is not in any way responsible, he appreciates the coincidence as a lovely way to set the tone. The floral decorations are ushered off and away into the safety of greenhouses and team quarters, but the dance itself continues on with very little to stop it.

“And you swear you’re not responsible for this?” Glabe asks for at least the fifth time. She’s radiating warmth under King’s fingers, which he supposes is one of the benefits of being a dragon. “None of it?”

King smiles and shakes his head, spinning her just enough to set the skirts of her gown spiraling out around her. “Absolutely none of it, I swear.”

It’s a lie, at least in part. He’d had nothing to do with the snow itself, but he’s taking advantage of it in his own way. If Glabe were to see her reflection, she’d see a mounting crown of snowflakes collecting on top of her head, each one hardening to ice on impact.

Soon, it will be too heavy to go unnoticed any longer, assuming the collected flakes don’t melt away from her body heat. King doesn’t really mind either way; if she won’t allow him to buy her necklaces, he’ll find other ways to adorn her.

vii.

“Well,” King says, one eyebrow raised. “This is a new look for you, dear.”

Glabe works her way up the buttons of his shirt, completely nonplussed. “What was it you said? I needed to try getting ready by hand, like everyone else?”

He had said that, hadn’t he? And now here she is, standing in the doorway of his bedroom in a pair of leggings and one of his shirts, a tie operating as a belt to cinch in the waist. She holds up both arms, showing off the watches on each wrist.

“What do you think, darling?” she asks, moving them to catch the sunlight streaming through the windows. “Should I wear the Mlovado, or the Hlolzkern?”

King resists the urge to start laughing outright. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, even, although he’s sure he doesn’t succeed. “Neither one,” he says.

“And here I’d thought you would appreciate my attempts to mimic your effortless style.”

King takes a moment to finish arranging his braids into something presentable and straighten out his tie one last time. And then he leaves the bathroom and walks past her, headed for the jewelry box on his dresser.

“You’re certainly providing an interpretation, if not an exact replica,” King says. He carefully selects a different watch and holds it out to her. “Try this one. It will clash less with the tie. Or, I suppose, the belt.”

Glabe smiles, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek as she takes it in hand. “Whatever you say.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me as @blink in the blaseball discord, where i do not speak, and @leonstamatis on tumblr, where i am simply incapable of shutting up for even one second. come say hi! <3


End file.
